


The Ghost Con

by cornelius



Series: Rexford Chronicles [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Ghosts, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7256476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornelius/pseuds/cornelius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean learned the secrets to a good con ages ago. Bringing a prince along was never one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost Con

**Author's Note:**

> The first two parts ([Part 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5394032) and [Part 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463722)) have been revised so they make more sense with this part!

The morning sun streamed through a crack in the curtains and hit Dean straight in the face. He twisted and turned and tried to fall back asleep, but it was no good. His body might be exhausted, but his mind was awake. 

Dean cursed Sam for somehow cheating at rock-paper-scissors and securing the master bedroom, leaving Dean the room in the back with the east-facing windows. Sam was usually first up in the morning. He probably saddled Dean with the back room just to make sure Dean got up in the morning. 

Dean moved over toward the window, putting on a shirt he found tossed on a chair and his buckskins from the night before. He opened the curtains and light washed in. It was a sunny day already and light reflected at him from their neighbor’s roof tiles.

The Falls neighborhood sat in the lower city, nestled between its namesake, The Falls park and the theater district. It was one of the more fashionable neighborhoods—at least as fashionable as people who had to _work_ for a living could be—and was populated with bankers and factory managers and highly sought-after master craftsmen and women.

The neighborhood was known for its long streets packed cheek to jowl with three or four story skinny row houses. Built in the last city expansion barely a generation before, most had limestone façades, the stone being relatively cheap as well as quarried nearby, and grey zinc roofs. The pricier houses had wide openings on the first floor for a carriage, while some of the larger houses had been cut up into apartments.

It was a part of town where less affluent members of the landed nobility tended to rent houses (when they weren’t at their country homes), so Lord Bonham and Sir Robert moving into the neighborhood was entirely unremarkable. They were even occasionally invited to dinners and parties by their neighbors who believed them to be equals in rank.

Dean thought the invitations were hilarious—Sam as a journeyman scholar wouldn’t be _so_ out of place in those kind of social arrangements, but Dean, the part-time conman and rest-of-the-time metalsmith, wasn’t exactly the fancy party type. Sam still always made them go to strengthen their cover story, and Dean was always bored out his mind. What was _he_ supposed to talk about with the landed gentry? 

_Ah yes sir, I too have been raising taxes on my tenants. Aren’t the poor hilarious?_ Dean would rather choke on the fancy finger food they served.

Though, stealing a prince away for the night hadn’t been so bad. Dean smiled to himself. Probably the best party he’d been to. 

Dean thought about the night before as he walked to the second floor bathroom. He _liked_ Castiel—a lot more than he should—and that scared him. In Castiel’s bed, shirtless and tucked away from the rest of the world, it was easy to believe that he and Castiel could be _something_. 

But in the harsh morning light? What could Dean offer a _prince_?

Dean splashed some water on the face and put it out of his mind. He had to focus on _today_. He had to make sure everything went right. 

Dean stepped out of the bathroom and he heard the light _clink_ of silverware on dishes. Sam must be up already. 

Sam was nearly done with his breakfast when Dean found him downstairs in the parlor, reading the newspaper. Dean smirked when he saw the headline—MORE PARANORMAL ACTIVITY REPORTED AS NUMBER OF HAUNTINGS RISES. 

Dean sat down at the table and moved a small stack of open letters on aquarian star letterhead from where they rested near Sam’s elbow. He put a dainty porcelain plate with painted grapevine motif in their place.

“Dean, please tell me you didn’t have sex with _Prince_ Castiel,” Sam said, not looking up from the paper.

“I did _not_ have sex with Prince Castiel,” Dean said as he reached for a pastry, but a wide, proud grin spread over his face. He dropped the pastry on the plate with a satisfying _clunk_.

“You’re such a liar,” Sam said, shaking his head as he looked at Dean over the paper. “Was _he_ the reason you were so anxious to get back to Rexford?”

Dean tried not to blush, but his face warmed anyway. “The weather’s getting warmer and our potential _clientele_ generally leave the city the closer we get to high summer. That’s _it_.”

Sam said nothing, but Dean could feel the “ _sure, Dean”_ in his glare.

Dean filled his plate with more sticky pastries oozing fruit fillings and licked his fingers with loud smacks. Sam just rolled his eyes and turned the page of his newspaper.

“How much longer do you think this’ll work?” Sam asked, still not looking at Dean.

Dean shrugged, and then realized that Sam’s head was still buried in the paper. “I dunno. Hopefully long enough for you to get what you need and get out.” Dean tapped his butter knife on the stack of letters, leaving an oily butter stain across the star on the topmost letter. “How long are they giving you?”

“I can have as much time as I need,” Sam said, and finally put down his paper. “That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about—”

Charlie walked into the room and Sam clammed up. _Getting caught_ —that’s what Sam was worried about. 

If they had to go up against a royal tribunal—and nobility _always_ requested a ruling from royalty—they were sunk. Sam was licensed by the University, but the Men of Letters held no sway in the city since Michael came into power and their word would be useless in a tribunal.

Even if the Men of Letters could help Sam, Dean was a con-man and Charlie lived under an assumed name. If the crown put the pieces together for either of them, there was no saving them from the dungeon—or something worse. 

Best not to mention it first thing in the morning.

Charlie sat down next to Dean and shook her head, still trying to wake up. Dean’d snuck into the house well past midnight, and even at that hour, Dean heard her moving around in her basement workroom/bedroom.

She poured herself a cup of tea and started to drink, when she got a good look at Dean. “Dean, what happened to your neck?!” 

Dean’s hand flew to his neck and he felt small raised lines where his neck met his shoulder. He picked up a spoon and tried to angle it to see whatever had frightened Charlie. He could just make out a few faint red lines from where Castiel’s grabbed him when they—

Sam looked over at Charlie disinterestedly. “Don’t worry,” Sam said, “it’s a _sex_ -related injury.”

Charlie leered at Dean. “ _That’s_ why you were so late getting in last night. Meet someone _interesting_ at that party?”

“Well, I mean, we didn’t _meet_ at the party—” Dean hedged, but Sam cut to the chase.

“It was Castiel.”

“ _Prince_ Castiel?!” She jolted the table in surprise and Dean grabbed for his coffee before the sudden movement tipped it over.

“Do you know a lot of _Castiel_ s?” Dean grumbled, licking spilled coffee off the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

Charlie eyed him suspiciously. “I thought you said you didn’t fuck where you work.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t—It’s not like that,” Dean sputtered, “Me and Cas is _nothing_ like you and Gilda.”

Dean felt guilty as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Charlie narrowed her eyes, taking a long sip of her tea, and Dean ducked his head apologetically. 

“We all know you think you’re being careful, but no one’s gonna bail you out if you get into trouble,” she warned.

Dean threw up his arms. “Why does everyone keep saying that? It’s not like I’m running a long con on the guy. We’re just _seeing_ each other, okay?”

“You don’t just _see_ a prince, Dean,” Charlie said with a weary sigh, “He’s a political commodity, and to them—to the crown—you’re a _nobody_.”

Dean sucked in air through his nostrils, but he didn’t protest. How could he? When he’d just been thinking the same thing. When it was just him and Castiel, it was so easy to pretend they were just two guys—so easy to _forget_ ...

Sam said nothing, but his silence hung in the air as if he’d shouted. He didn’t have to say anything to tell Dean he agreed with Charlie.

“Dean, I—” Charlie started, but Dean shook his head. He’d been an ass for no reason and she’d just been telling the truth. She wasn’t the one who needed to apologize.

She gave him a smile—message received—and took a big bite of a crumbly pastry. It left flakes on her nose and cheek and she laughed as Dean threw a napkin at her face. Charlie tried to throw a bite of danish back at Dean, but it went wide and landed in Sam’s coffee. 

“Really?” Sam asked, looking into his coffee cup to see if it was worth salvaging.

The chime from the hall clock rang nine times, and Charlie gulped down the rest of her tea. She picked up a cloth napkin and started filling it with small cakes and croissants.

“That’s my cue,” she said as she knotted her bundle, “Smell you later, bitches.” 

%%% 

Dean always thought of Castle Road like something out of a dream. The world somehow felt less real on that street—a place of light and impossible things.

Small round cobblestones glowed pink and blue and orange as the midday sun passed through flags and banners overhead. The dapple light softened the edges of the world, creating a blurred sketch of a busy street. 

Pedestrians, dressed to impress, sparkled as the sun caught the light in the gilt threads woven into their clothes. They moved like bees from flower to flower, flitting from one high-end boutique to another. 

These shops, for only the wealthiest of patrons, dominated the south end of the street, overflowing into the walkways with inviting and enticing displays. Finely-woven silks reached out and begged to touched while the perfume shop beckoned with wafting rose and lilac and ambergris. A small loom sat outside the tapestry factory and passersby were invited to watch a master weaver work—and admire the superb quality of her weaving. 

The slightly sweet smell of old books almost ensnared Sam. Castle Road was as well-known for its magical wonders as its mundane ones, and this book shop was famous for its spellbooks. Even from the street, Dean could see that most displayed were copies of works Sam and Dean had memorized years ago, but there were always new and exciting treasures to be found—or so said the proprietor who called to them.

Sam drifted closer to the shop. He spent a lot of time finding and decoding old spellbooks, experimenting with altering a sigil here or swapping words until it did what it was supposed to do. Then Sam could wrote reports for the Men of Letters about how the spells in the book worked.

Writing a spell down was, of course, problematic. It was the act of writing a spell after all that gave it power. So spellbooks ended up being less instruction manuals and more tomes of riddles. The spell had to be changed enough that it didn’t _work_ once committed to paper, but if if whoever reading the book couldn’t figure out what needed to be changed, the knowledge of that spell would be lost. 

It didn’t help that paper decays over time, and that decay also affects spells in books. Dean knew of at least three ancient spellbooks that had suddenly burst into flames because part of the paper flaked away or the ink from one page bled over onto another.

This was why Dean wrote his spells in codes. No chance of the meaningless code words ever producing magic, even if he’s dumb enough not to punch runes for _resilience_ into each page—a technique he’d invented himself.

So, Dean was less interested in the books (and potentially walking into a fire bomb, the way those books were stored) than in the spellwork of the shop next door. 

Instead of a door and display window like the other stores, the entire front was a folding door. A woman with a dark braids sat on the ground inside, weaving together strands of brightly colored thread with her hands. Charms hung from a simple stand around the room, but they didn’t look like any charms Dean had ever made. Dean’s metal charms struck with runes looked so inelegant when compared to her charms. One stand held hoops of colorfully embroidered fabric stretched over like a drum and another had intricately knotted and braided ropes. Patches stitched with glyphs in a language unfamiliar to Dean laid on shelves on the back wall.

Dean examined one display and saw she’d tagged each charm with a description of what it was for. In her scratchy handwriting, Dean could make out words like _confidence_ and _spirituality_ and _hope_. Dean picked up a small knot tagged _mindfulness_ , but it seemed like she had hesitated when she wrote the word as if it wasn’t the best word to explain what the charm was for. 

Dean tugged his coin purse free and offered to pay her for the small charm. She didn’t stop the quick movements of her fingers, the deft manipulations of the thread in her hand. Instead, she gestured with her head to a shallow square bowl, and the bells woven into her hair tinkled softly.

Dean placed the money in the bowl and nodded to her in thanks. He’d rarely seen magic like this, and he wanted to take it home and figure it out. As he tucked the charm in his pocket, Sam steered Dean away from the shop, checking his pocket watch as they walked. At this rate, they were going to be late. 

They walked quickly to the north end of the street, where shops and restaurants turned into the castle-like mansions the street was named for. Only the royal family and their staff could live in Rexford Castle, but generations before, it had been popular for the nobility and the rising class of rich merchants to build castles of their own. 

While they were smaller than Rexford Castle, Dean would hesitate to call them miniature versions of a castle. The houses still towered overhead, their tall walls reaching for the heavens. A few houses had walls made of blocks of thick grey stone mined from local quarries, while others had thinner layers of more exotic rock. Turrets (both decorative and functional) lined the street, capped with shining copper roofs or ornate battlements. Heraldic flags and pennants waved in the breeze, making the whole street a riot of garish color. 

Sam gawked at the castle homes convincingly, like he really was some country baron’s steward who’d never been to the city before. Dean had to rely more on his excellent acting skills. Since moving to Rexford, business—of various kinds—had brought Dean to Castle Road on more than one occasion. The first time he’d walked down the castle lined boulevard, he’d worried that the street’s commitment to authenticity included the possibility of hidden archers and hot oil ready to be poured on potential interlopers. Then they passed a house with a functional drawbridge, but no moat, and Dean’s worries vanished.

These castles hadn’t been designed with to withstand a siege—only to look like they would.

Sam adjusted the rough hewn bag over his shoulder and the movement caught Dean’s eye. He turned to look at Sam and saw two women walking arm in arm staring at Dean and Sam. Sure, Sam’s bag was entirely functional and lacked the ornate stitchwork Dean saw on the bags and purses of the city nobility. And sure, their clothes were a few seasons out of date. But that was all part of their act, and no reason to openly stare in the middle of the street.

Then one of the women winked at Sam. _Oh_.

Sam waved back to them and they giggled. Hooves beat a rhythm on the cobblestones and they turned to look as a man on a blue roan racing down the street. Sunlight glinted off the gold accents on the bridle and the gilt royal insignia on a flag hanging from the breastplate.

“Lord John!” the rider called, “Sir Robert!” The tails of his coat flew out behind him like great dark wings.

“What’s His Royal Highness The Prince Castiel doing here?” Sam hissed to Dean. “And why’s he trying to get our attention?”

Dean huffed. “I told him about today, okay? It’s not a big deal.”

“Dean!”

“Shh!” Dean hushed him, “And it’s John, remember?”

Castiel dismounted and Dean’s heart caught in his throat. Castiel was so graceful and elegant and his simple pants let Dean see every flex of his considerable thigh muscles. He pulled off his riding gloves, tugging on one finger at a time until Castiel’s broad palms and long fingers were exposed. His skin glowed in the midday sun.

Sam elbowed Dean in the ribs. “Stop staring.”

“It’s good to see you again, Sir Robert,” Castiel said as he took Sam’s hand.

“Yes, it is a pleasant _surprise_ to see you again so soon, Your Royal Highness,” Sam said, his eyes sliding to Dean. Castiel frowned and looked at Dean, too.

“What?” Dean asked.

Castiel rolled his eyes and leaned into Sam’s space. He said, softer than before, “I didn’t mean to surprise you, Sir Robert, but I said very publicly that I was interested in your ghost hunting. It would look … odd if I never actually joined you. Or is there some reason you don’t want a prince overseeing your ghost hunt?”

Castiel raised a knowing eyebrow at Sam and Sam sighed—he couldn’t turn Castiel away now, or they’d look too suspicious. 

“It’s our pleasure to have Your Royal Highness join us today. I hope this venture is educational,” Sam said through clenched teeth. Dean knew the expression well. From far away, Sam looked perfectly happy and sincere, but up close, it was all savage threat and _vicious_.

Dean recoiled from that look. He often forgot the darkness that lurked in Sam, the dangerous drive for knowledge and power that had once nearly cost Sam his life.

A loud bang two houses down made all three of them start. They turned to look as the front windows of one home exploded outward into the street. Men in dark blue tailcoats and buckskin breeches and women in high-waisted dresses of ivory linen poured out of the neighboring houses to see what the commotion was.

“Lord John! Sir Robert! Thank the Goddess!” Balthazar appeared from one of the nearby houses and beckoned them over. He gave Castiel a private surprised look, but said nothing of Castiel’s presence. 

“Lord Metatron!” Balthazar called to the man who’d just come out of the house currently spitting sparks into the street. He was a short man with curled greying hair cut fashionably short. On some men (like Balthazar who sported the same hairstyle), the cut made them look artfully disheveled. On this man, it made him look slovenly. 

Balthazar brought the Dean, Sam and Castiel over to the house. “You are in luck! These gentlemen are experts in dealing with all things supernatural.” 

The homeowner looked at Balthazar bewildered. He then narrowed his eyes for a moment, and a moment of dread had Dean holding his breath. If he suspected them—if the whole situation smacked too much of _coincidence_ for the man—he’d have every right to call the city garrison and have Dean and Sam hauled away.

But then his gaze flickered over to Castiel and suspicion disappeared from his face. Dean hadn’t thought about the kind of legitimacy Castiel would bring to their … endeavors, but his presence probably just saved them from the dungeons.

Balthazar pushed on, either unaware of the man’s suspicion or ignoring it. He assured them in his most persuasive tone that Dean and Sam—or rather Lord John and Sir Robert—had made it their mission to rid the world of dangerous spirits—for a fee, which Balthazar was only too happy to negotiate.

Most people, when faced with potential destruction of their home, immediately agreed to Balthazar’s terms. However, Lord Metatron balked at the initial amount Balthazar requested and it wasn’t until a decorative lamp smashed into the street that he pulled out a few gold coins in down payment. The remainder of the balance came in the form of a hastily scrawled check. 

“Get in there already! Before anything else is broken,” he said as he pushed the money into Balthazar’s hands. He called someone over to take Castiel’s horse, and shooed Dean, Sam and Castiel into the house.

Dean pushed open the large wooden door (hanging precariously on one hinge) and Sam and Castiel followed him into the foyer. The windows had been blown out, but it was eerily silent in the expansive foyer, all sounds of the onlookers in the street muffled by one of Charlie’s spells. 

Charlie sat waiting for them on the bottommost step of a grand staircase that took up most of the space in the foyer. 

Sam walked over to her and gave her his hand to help her up. “Find what we’re looking for?”

“Yup.” Charlie gestured for them to follow her up the stairs. The staircase led left and right up to the second floor, and when they got to the landing halfway up the stairs, they took the right branch. 

From the second floor balcony, Dean could see the entire room, including the enormous chandelier hanging from ceiling beams reinforced with magic. The small crystals that decorated the chandelier refracted sunlight from high windows around the room, giving the old house an unexpected glow. All other Castle Road houses Dean’d been in had capitalized on the old, rustic feel of a castle, including a dark, dank lighting scheme.

Old, faded tapestries typical of these houses had been replaced by paintings of horses and ships and country farms. Suits of armor and animal hides were nowhere to be found. There wasn’t even a non-functional cookpot in the hearth on the far side of the room. 

Whoever decorated this house was trying to run from the house’s history as fast as it could. 

The whole house groaned and the three men jumped, startled by the noise. 

Charlie beamed at them from the head of their little caravan. She was pointing to a tiny slip of paper they’d passed, affixed to the wall and already burning away. Charlie was a talented magician with an ingenious knack for tweaking spells for maximum efficiency. 

“Pretty neat, huh?” She beamed at them.

Sam laughed and shook off the embarrassment of being caught off guard. 

“So, stop me if I’m wrong—” Castiel said as they followed Charlie, “You have Charlie set up fake hauntings, get Balthazar introduce you to the homeowners and vouch for you, then you ‘exorcise’ the ghost and split the fee?”

“Yes and no,” Sam said over his shoulder. “The houses we’ve picked all have some dangerous artifact in them, according to the locating spells Charlie and I have done. As part of my duties as a Man of Letters, I need to get them out and safely contain or neutralize them. Unfortunately, rich people tend to be less likely to part with their stuff, even if it’s haunted or cursed or whatever.”

“Yeah, they think their shit is more valuable if it’s got a fucking poltergeist or demon or siren hanging out inside,” Dean explained, “That is, until it starts throwing around their shit and breaking things. But it’s better if we get in there before it causes any _real_ trouble, so fake hauntings come in handy.”

“Plus, we don’t break anything that can’t be replaced,” Charlie added from the front of the line.

“And the money?” Castiel looked pointedly at Dean.

Dean shrugged. “They’ve got more gold than they know what to do with and they really don’t mind parting with it if it will save their precious stuff. Might as well get paid for working.” Castiel furrowed his brows. “What if the object is in an artisan’s house? Or a dock worker’s?”

Charlie led Sam into a small guest bedroom, but Dean hooked a hand in the crook of Castiel’s elbow, holding him back in the hall.

“We don’t charge them, Cas. We’re not monsters,” Dean said, hurt leeching into his voice. “I think you got the wrong impression of me from before. I’m not a _thief_ —at least, I’m not a _real_ thief. Sam needed me to get something dangerous and magical out of the palace when we met, and _okay_ I might’ve grabbed a gold candlestick or two on the way out, but I don’t believe for a second anyone _missed_ them. And yes, I sometimes take on not so _legal_ jobs but I—”

Castiel put his hands on Dean’s face, lightly cupping his jaw. A small smile lifted the corner of Castiel’s mouth and Dean’s heart skipped a beat. “Okay. I understand.”

“Found it!” Charlie called from the bedroom, “Now why don’t you two lovebirds get in here so we can get this over with.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but pulled Castiel into the room by the lace of his cuff.

Charlie held a squat rectangular box of lacquered wood. It looked like a music box, with a knob on the side for winding the mechanism, and completely innocuous.

Dean threw an arm over Castiel’s shoulder. “Hey Cas, since this is your first hunt, you wanna do the honors?”

Sam dug around in his bag until he found a cursebox, which would neutralize whatever dangerous magic an artifact possessed. Sam opened the cursebox and held it out to Castiel.

Castiel took the music box from Charlie and all Hell broke loose.

%%% 

“Dammit, Charlie, it’s a _real_ ghost!” Dean shouted over the din of crashing furniture. The poltergeist crashed into the hallway and began ripping portraits and horse paintings and decorative sconces off the wall.

“I can see that, Dean!” Charlie yelled back as he pulled pouches out of Sam’s bag. She tossed one to Dean and Dean dropped a ring of salt around Sam’s unconscious body laying on the bedroom floor. Dean heard Charlie throw another pouch to Castiel too.

He heard her shouting to Castiel, barely audible over the storm the poltergeist was kicking up—“That’s salt, make a ring and you’ll be safe. Stay in the bedroom with Sam until it’s over!”—but he felt disconnected from the danger of the ghost just on the other side of the wall. 

His brother was breathing, but that knowledge did little to stop Dean’s heart from racing. Sam was also bleeding from a head wound, his long hair dark and wet and matted with blood. 

The longer he stayed unconscious the worse it was, right? 

“Winchester!” Charlie shouted, “ _Dean_! Leave him for now. He’ll be okay!”

But what if he wasn’t okay? What was Dean supposed to do then?

Castiel cried out and Dean watched as the poltergeist dragged him from the bedroom. Terror and indecision rooted him to the spot. 

_Sam will be fine_ , he tried to convince himself. _I need to help Cas._

He grabbed the iron poker from the fireplace and marched out into the narrow hallway—just in time for the poltergeist to shoot a broken mirror at Castiel. 

A considerable chunk of glass tore its way through the top of Cas’ thigh, leaving a gash over six inches long and far too deep, before lodging itself near Cas’ knee.

Something manic and wild and _angry_ bubbled up in Dean’s chest. He swung the iron rod through the ghost and it disappeared in a cloud of ash and fire.

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. The ghost was gone—for now—and Castiel laid crumpled on the floor.

“We can’t stay in this hallway,” Charlie said as Dean helped Castiel to his feet, “Follow me!”

Charlie closed the door to the bedroom and locked it with a spell. They’d come back for Sam after they got rid of the poltergeist. 

He just had to _trust_ in Sam. Sam would be okay. Dean couldn’t do anything until the ghost was gone, anyway. _Sam_ _would be okay._

Dean, Castiel and Charlie moved slowly down the grand staircase back to the foyer, Castiel held up between Dean and Charlie. The foyer wasn’t an ideal place for a fight, but at least they were no longer crammed together in a tiny hallway. Dean rested Castiel against a wall while he and Charlie went for the dining room table. They lifted the table with some effort and carried it into the foyer, fear and urgency making the task easier. They turned it on its side, giving them at least some cover when the poltergeist reappeared.

Charlie laid down a line of salt around them—it wouldn’t stand up to too much abuse, but it would serve as a first line of defense. She also carved spells into the tabletop, spells that could be quickly activated for both attacking and defending.

The air chilled around them and Dean shivered. The poltergeist was back.

Charlie yelled for him to duck—and just in time. The chandelier fell to the ground with an earsplitting crash of crystals and twisting metal. The crystals shot out at them, embedding themselves in the thick wood of the dining room table. A few whizzed by just inches above Dean’s and Charlie’s heads.

Charlie scratched a line into the table and all the tiny crystals in the table exploded back toward the ghost. The tiny iron rings that had attached the crystals to the chandelier burned as they passed through him. He roared in anger. 

Castiel was still bleeding from a gash on his thigh. Bleeding _bad_. Dean pressed his hands down on Castiel’s thigh, trying to staunch the wound while also avoiding the chunk of glass still embedded in Castiel’s leg. 

Castiel moaned, and his left hand twitched on the other side of his thigh. 

“Charlie,” Castiel gasped, “Can you keep it in one place? Just for a few seconds?”

Charlie nodded, using all her words scrawling another spell on the edge of the table in front of them.

“Good,” Castiel breathed, his hand still twitching.

Charlie finished the final word of the spell and the writing began to glow. It shot off toward the poltergeist and caged him in an invisible box.

The ghost roared and the few portraits still on the wall crashed to the floor. Dean reflexively threw his hands up over his ears, unthinkingly leaving bloody trails on his face.

“Where is he?” Castiel asked. “How far from us?”

“Middle of the room,” Charlie replied, “I’d say … fifteen feet or so.”

Castiel growled and slapped the floor, and Dean could see for the first time that Castiel’s hand hadn’t been twitching—he’d been writing out a spell. It was an Enochian sigil, written in Castiel’s _blood_.

Castiel convulsed as the sigil he’d written glowed and burned its shape into the marble floor. A burst of white light filled the room, so bright that Dean had to cover his eyes. The poltergeist screamed one last long, tortured wail. 

Then nothing. 

Dean’s ears rung and his eyes burned. The poltergeist was gone. Castiel was still bleeding on the floor. Sam was still bleeding upstairs. 

...If he was still alive.

He’d stabilize Cas first, then check on Sam. 

Dean ripped his first aid kit out of their supply bag and looked for the strips of linen he’d stashed away in case of emergency. They were small healing spells that would hopefully at least stop the bleeding until they could get Castiel to a hospital.

Castiel held up one hand to stop Dean. He put two fingers over the wound and mumbled something in a language Dean didn’t know. Dean was worried that blood loss was making him delirious when Castiel’s mumbling stopped and his leg began to glow. In less than a second, the warm, blue light disappeared, along with the cut on Castiel’s leg.

Dean gaped at Castiel, and Charlie gasped. Dean’d never seen someone _speak_ a spell before, hadn’t known it was possible to even make the magic work before by _speaking_ it.

Then, Castiel passed out.

Dean pulled himself back together. “What the _Hell_ was that?” 

%%%

Dean pushed through the front door and crashed into the street. The people in the street blurred together. He needed to get Balthazar.

“Balthazar!” he shouted and a woman let out a startled cry. 

All the people who had been watching from the street moved in on him, demanding answers. “Is it gone?”—“What was all that noise?!”—“Are you okay?”

A hand gripped Dean’s arm and then Balthazar was there, steadying Dean.

“Give us a few minutes, won’t you?” he said to Lord Metatron and the other onlookers, his light tone calming the crowd, “We’ll have you back in your house in a jiffy.”

Balthazar led him back into the house. “It’s Castiel, isn’t it?” Balthazar asked seriously, whispering in Dean’s ear.

“He did something—I don’t know what, and then he passed out,” Dean explained as they walked up to Castiel, still sleeping on the floor. Balthazar bent down on one knee to get a better look at Castiel. He put a hand fondly on Castiel’s cheek and let out a shaky breath. 

Castiel was still covered in blood. Dean looked down at his hands. They werestill covered in blood, too. That explained the scream when he walked outside. 

His hands trembled.

_Get your shit together, Winchester. Sam will be okay. Cas will be okay._

Dean had to do something—take action. He paced back and forth while Balthazar checked Castiel over for injury. “We can’t take him out of here unconscious,” Dean said to Balthazar.

“I’m not unconscious,” Castiel groaned. He tried to sit up, but he just sort of flopped into Balthazar’s arms.

Balthazar handed Castiel off to Dean and Dean was glad to feel Castiel’s body under his hands, whole and warm and relatively safe. Balthazar pulled a sheaf of delicate, almost transparent paper from his breast pocket and started writing. He wrote like he talked, in sweeping slopes and curlicues, all the while mumbling, “Cassie, I don’t know why I put up with you. You are so reckless and Dean! _Dean_! Rub your hand on this paper—no _this one, this one_ —”

Dean touched Balthazar’s paper and Castiel’s blood left a dark smudge. The writing glowed and suddenly Dean held _Balthazar_ in his arms. 

Castiel spoke—or really Balthazar-as-Castiel spoke: “You get him somewhere safe. The spell will only last as long this sheet of paper is whole and the magic is already degrading it.”

Balthazar-as-Castiel held up the sheet and it began to smolder, burning from the inside out.

“Why don’t you take him to the castle?” Sam asked, holding his head in one hand and the banister in another as he walked down the stairs. Charlie held the curse box and hovered behind him, worried he might collapse at a moment’s notice.

Balthazar threw up his hands, and it was such a wild gesture in Castiel’s body. “Too many people asking too many questions. Now I’m—” he looked at his golden pocket watch, “going to go get spectacularly drunk in some hole in the wall tavern and I suggest you have Castiel stumble home around, hmm, let’s say two in the morning. That should give him enough time to recover.”

Balthazar stayed long enough to help Castiel to his feet and swap Castiel’s tan waistcoat and black dress coat for Balthazar’s ivory vest with gold trim and navy blue coat. 

“And Dean,” Balthazar added, “You should really wipe the blood off your face before leaving. You don’t want to make a scene.” He stepped away from them and gone was the slow saunter Balthazar was known for. He walked out the door, head low with Castiel’s purposeful stride. 

Dean ran to Sam and hugged him. Dean’s heart thundered in his chest, but Sam was up and walking, so he had to be okay.

“I’m alright, Dean,” Sam said, patting Dean on the back, “it’s just a small cut and not even that deep. Charlie’s already got me all patched up.”

“Are you sure?” Dean asked.

“He’ll be fine,” Charlie said from the other side of the room where she was hanging up a portrait that had been torn off the wall. “No time for hugs. We need to get your prince out of here before that spell wears off.”

Charlie continued putting furniture back where it belonged, while Sam wiped the blood from his temple and Dean scrubbed blood from his hands, his face—well, everywhere. 

Satisfied that Dean wasn’t going to frighten anyone out in the street, Dean and Sam propped Castiel between them and left out the front door as Charlie slipped out the back.

“What’s wrong with him?” Lord Metatron exclaimed. Castiel’s—or Balthazar’s—head lolled with every step Dean and Sam took.

“He just got whammied by the ghost. He’ll be fine,” Dean said, and readjusted Castiel’s arm on his shoulder.

“Your home is ghost free now,” Sam reassured Lord Metatron, though Sam probably wasn’t sure the ghost was gone. Dean certainly wasn’t. “We’ve rarely encountered ghosts who are so … destructive. So keep in mind that there was some extra damage—"

“Damage!” Lord Metatron cried.

“But it’s safe for you to go inside now,” Sam said, already moving away from the house. They walked as fast as they could with Castiel still propped between them, and turned into an alley once they’d cleared the last of the houses. Charlie was waiting for them in a doorway, along with her supplies and the cursebox. 

They ducked into another alley, one that ran parallel with Castle Road. Charlie led them down a path behind the opulent shops and restaurants they’d seen walking down the street. The sunlight was harsher on this side of the buildings, sharpening the edges of junk piled in the alley and the odor of the overflowing trash cans. 

The next turn brought them to the far corner of someone’s backyard, which they crept through silently. The creak of rusted hinges almost brought their trek to an end, but Charlie distracted a guard with a quick spell, and they disappeared into the crowd on High Street.

People shopping and haggling at the market stalls pressed at them from all sides as. Instead of rich perfumes, the stink of fish and meat left out too long in the sun assaulted them as they pushed through the throng. Course fabric was pushed into Charlie’s space and animal pelts into Dean’s. They ignored it as they followed Sam toward the trolley station, his large stature and stride forcing others out of the way.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief as they finally sat Castiel down on the wooden trolley bench. He sat down next to Castiel and rubbed some of the stiffness out of his shoulder. They were home free, but nothing about the afternoon sat right with Dean. 

What had caused that poltergeist to react so violently? What had Castiel done to heal himself? And how could Dean have been so stupid as to _invite_ a prince to their hunt?

Dean dropped his head in his hands. He barely heard Sam and Charlie over the hum of the trolley whispering to each other, and going over their observations for Sam’s report. He tuned them out as best he could as he tried not to worry about Sam including Castiel’s impossible spell now. What would happen to Castiel if the Men of Letters knew what he could do?

Dean looked over at Castiel. Sleeping on the trolley, he didn’t look anything like a prince or a general (but that could be because he still looked like Balthazar). He looked vulnerable and defenseless and it was all Dean’s fault.

The trolley turned toward the lower city and the buildings changed from ancient and eclectic to modern and uniform. Dean watched them blur together, but that could have been the speed of the trolley or some rebel tears in his eyes.

Dean had to do the right thing. He _had_ to protect Castiel—even if it broke his heart. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [messier51](http://messier51.tumblr.com) for betaing!! <3<3<3


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